Underdog
by Kiliflower
Summary: "It doesn't look like I've made much of an effort, but I'm not going to make it look like I've waited excitedly all year for this Reaping. This is not a birthday party, or a wedding. It is a funeral." Throughout history, District 12 will have four Victors. This is the story of their first. Set during The 17th Annual Hunger Games.
1. The Calm

_**Disclaimer: **__This is a work of fan fiction. __The story I tell here about Tatiana Bryson is my own invention, and it is not purported or believed to be part of Suzanne Collins' story canon. This story is for entertainment only and is not part of the official story line. I do not claim ownership to any part of The Hunger Games trilogy. I am not profiting financially from the creation and publication of this story. Please read, review, and (hopefully) enjoy!_

**Chapter 1 – The Calm**

I awake to shimmers of pale gold morning light filtering through the gaps between the curtains covering my bedroom window. I look around the small, cramped space and see that I threw my bed sheets off of me last night. I slide off the mattress and pick up the thin fabric, noticing a large rip in the side of it. I know that this will mean war. As if I need my father's scolding today of all days.

Though I'd never admit it to him, I know what made me so violent in my sleep. Terrible nightmares, grotesque pictures of my own bloody death coming in quick flashes – they were disgustingly realistic, as if I could see the mace slamming into my skull, hear the sharp slice of a blade running across my throat. I am afraid, and I hate it.

I fix my torn sheets back onto the shabby mattress and step out into the hallway quietly. If my parents and siblings are sleeping soundly, then I don't want to disturb them. There are four of us and, bar my youngest brother Micah – who is only a toddler – we are all eligible as Tributes. I am the only girl and the thought of any of us being pitted against each other in the Games makes my stomach turn. The worst part is, when survival instinct kicks in, ethics check out. I've seen it before and I have a horrible feeling that I know I'd do the same.

On my way to the kitchen, I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror and find myself looking a lot older than my own fifteen years. My ashen hair tumbles messily around my shoulders. My hazel eyes are devoid of emotion but later on, at the Reaping, I will have to put on a brave face and look alert and prepared. The strange thing is, whether your name is called or not, you learn it's best to not show weakness. A force of habit, I suppose.

As I step into the kitchen, I see that I am not the only one who is having trouble sleeping. My eldest brother Tomas is sitting at the dinner table, hands clenched together, face grim. He's eighteen, so it's his last year as a potential Tribute… but this doesn't relax or placate him. If he gets through this Reaping it's still a one way ticket to a pitiful life of slaving away in the dark coal mines of District 12.

"Morning," he says with as optimistic a tone as he can manage. "Sleep well?"

I shrug, not wanting to discuss sleep for fear of it leading to a discussion about the nightmares I'd had.

"How do you feel about your odds today?" he asks. That's one thing about Tomas, he's very straight to the point – the Hunger Games is what's on all our minds and he won't act like it isn't.

I pause before answering. "Extremely indifferent," I say. Tomas lets out a hollow laugh. I don't think he's amused, really, but I know that we all need some form of distraction when Reaping Day rolls around. He just happens to combat the fear with a sense of humour. I don't mind.

Glancing at the clock, I see that it is nearing ten. There is no school today – after all, it's a special occasion. Good news, no classes – bad news, you might be carted away to the Capitol to be ripped into pieces by Mutts. I'd rather hear our teacher drone on about the history of Panem in his flat, monotonous voice. Considering the alternate, it's a no brainer, unless you're a Career – that is, a Tribute from District 1, 2 or 4.

Tomas and I are soon joined by the rest of our family. We sit around the table, quietly eating our meagre breakfast of porridge and stale brown bread. Most of us know that we'll still finish our meal with rumbling stomachs, as per usual. Those in Twelve never get enough to eat, if you don't count our Peacekeepers and those in town who get by soundly, going to sleep with full bellies under warm, thick blankets. It's hard to not feel a twinge of sourness every now and again, but it's not like feeling bitter will make you any less hungry. You just have to carry on.

At about half past eleven, my mother tells us that we should go get ready. Her voice is steady, controlled, as if she's trying to convince herself to stay calm. I nod curtly. I bathe quickly and get changed into an admittedly pretty white dress that stops just below the knee. I decide to tie my hair into a simple ponytail. It doesn't look like I've made much of an effort, but I'm not going to make it look like I've waited excitedly all year for this Reaping. This is not a birthday party, or a wedding. It is a funeral.

After I'm finished preparing, I help my younger brother Isaac dress. He fumbles clumsily with the buttons on his pale blue shirt, already nervous about the Reaping – after all, it's his first year. His name is only in there once, but that doesn't guarantee anything. A girl in my class at school was chosen as a tribute when she was his age. She didn't last long in the Arena. I bury the thought from my mind, refusing to remember, and try to comfort Isaac instead. "You'll be OK," I tell him encouragingly. "Look at how many years Tommy's name has been in there, and he's fine. You're going to breeze through it." He shoots me a weak smile and I know I've made him feel better. For now.

We're all gathered in the kitchen when a shrill, piercing whistle blows in the distance. It beckons us all, taunting us. All we have is hope, a small spark of hope that it won't be any of us… that the odds could possibly be in our favour. I look down and see that my hands are clenched tightly into fists already and my fingernails have left light imprints on my skin. It is my father who says in his deep, gruff voice that we can't be late so we better get going.

So we step out of the door and join the crowds of sniffling children and stone-faced adults making their way to the town square. We walk to the Reaping.

We walk to our death.


	2. A Funeral March

**Chapter 2 – A Funeral March**

The town square of District 12 has been adorned with brightly coloured banners and massive television screens. You can see the hopelessness and apprehension that clouds the faces of every citizen as they will themselves forward. Isaac is gripping my right hand with his left, his face pale. I pull him closer to me, as if to protect him. Yet I know there is nothing I can do. No amount of idle chit chat or reassuring words will help.

I see cameramen and members of the technician teams either scrambling about in frenzied preparation or adjusting the mechanical equipment with the utmost concentration. It's impossible to not think of vultures surveying their next meal.

When it's time to sign in, our family embraces each other, as we do every year. It's almost like a tradition – after all, it could be the last time we're all alive together. My mother kisses Tomas, Isaac and I on the cheek and father bids us good luck. Some people think he's extremely strict and uptight, but I think they misunderstand – he was just raised differently. All he knew growing up was intense focus on being strong and being disciplinary. Not his fault. We all have our blood identification taken and are separated into groups based on gender and age. I don't have time to speak to my brothers as the Peacekeepers assist in dividing us all, which somewhat upsets me. Taking my place with the other fifteen year old girls, I see that they're more visibly nervous than I am – I can't help but take pride in how stoic I look in comparison. If they only knew what a nervous wreck I actually am.

At two o'clock it begins. Every year it's the same format that we have to endure. Our District mayor, a short, stout man who walks with a slight hunch, recites a speech about our nation's origins and our troubled past – he emphasises on the rebellion of the twelve Districts of Panem against the ever-loving Capitol, their subsequent loss and the destruction of District 13 and, of course, the creation of The Hunger Games. They say it's a reminder of our crimes, but we all know it's a sick form of punishment that they enforce on us. It's a malicious, sadistic reminder of our own audacity. In a way, I think Thirteen was lucky that they got demolished – better dead than watching your own children kill each other off.

Normally, at this point in the speech, the Mayor reads out the names of current and past victors of the District they run. Unfortunately, in seventeen years of Hunger Games, District 12 has never had a winning Tribute. We rarely make it beyond the last ten. You can see that he is uncomfortable. This is embarrassing – as if being the most neglected and most run down District in the country wasn't enough. I do think we might stand a chance each year if we had someone to organise and line up sponsors for us. It would also help if the majority of our Tributes didn't look so unattractively malnourished. But in the Capitol, I would imagine that nobody wants to waste their money on frail children who always end up being seen as hopeless competitors. It's a rotten reality.

Our Mayor composes himself and swiftly moves on to introduce the District 12 escort, Anika Strauss, who is wearing an exceptionally bright yellow suit with cerulean ruffles. His periwinkle hair is slicked back and as he strides confidently across the stage; his shoes make an irritating clacking sound. He steps up on the podium, breaks into a disgustingly sunny grin and chirps: "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favour!"

Anika welcomes us, tells us that today, a lucky two of us will be bestowed with the honour of representing District 12 in the 17th Annual Hunger Games. To be honest, I don't see much honour in getting a knife to the back, or an arrow in the heart. Anika waffles on and, as always, it's ladies first. I already feel like someone has punched me square in the gut. This is it. He crosses the podium and approaches a large ball made of glass, full nearly to the brim with slips of paper. There are thousands of names and just one female Tribute.

Our enthusiastic escort is trying so hard to create suspense, it's pathetic. He twirls his fingers amongst the paper slips, brushing the parchment delicately – almost lovingly – before sharply grabbing hold of one and raising it high above his head. He shuffles over to the microphone and unrolls the paper, squinting at it in the sunlight. He clears his throat, and his silly Capitol accent is almost diminished as he calls out a name.

"Tatiana Bryson."


	3. Game Face

_**Author's Note: **__Thank you splendeur for your review! I truly appreciate it._

**Chapter 3 – Game Face**

I feel like the ground beneath my feet has fractured and shattered into a million pieces. All the faces that surround me seem suddenly anonymous, their sympathetic expressions concealing just how little they care. But I can't feel anger – I know that if it had been another girl called, my reaction would be the same. Every year, those of us who have been spared are just glad to not be on our way to the Capitol.

It isn't until I see the other girls gingerly clearing a path that the full seriousness of my situation hits me. As I step tentatively forward, the wheels in my head are turning, trying to formulate some strategy. Maybe it's too soon, and maybe later on I'll just lose hope and succumb to the inevitability of my dreary fate, but for now… I'll resist. I'll cling to that spark of hope. It could be all I have.

But as I think of all the Hunger Games' that I remember watching, not one single Victor won without having some sort of plan. Whether it's to slash and hack their way through the competition – as so many Careers do – or outlast them in basic survival skills, they've had a game plan. One year, a girl from District 8 named Verity – who subsequently won her Games – was tricky and clever enough to nab and steal other Tributes' supplies in order to turn them against each other. She somehow managed to kill them by making them kill each other. Nobody expected a Tribute from the textile and clothing District to be that wily and cunning, or to outsmart Careers several years older than her. The element of surprise doesn't just shake the Arena, the aftershocks extend and branch out into the Capitol.

Somewhere in the obscurity of this new world of uncertainty that I've been thrust into, I hear distant crying. Is it Isaac? Or maybe it's my mother, or perhaps little Micah… I have no idea. I feel a lump rising in my throat and swallow hard. My hands are starting to shake and all I know is that my feet are bringing me to the stage out of pure necessity. I won't be the girl who gets put man-handled by the Peacekeepers. As I walk across the Square, I see my schoolmates, their recognition of me flashing momentarily across their faces before they start to tune me out. I like to think that their ignoring me is all part of the healing process.

I have at last been spotted trudging along by Anika Strauss, because he enthusiastically exclaims, "Ah, there she is! Come on up, sweetie. Ooh, look at that strut. Girl power!" You know, if Anika Strauss keeps this up, I think I may make a kill before I even get into the Arena.

As I ascend the steps, the dazzling whiteness of Anika's teeth is shocking. They are so absurdly bleached and contrast awfully with his electric pink lipstick. It makes me realized how underprepared I am for the camera. I do not look beautiful. I look like Seam scum, District 12 vermin – at least in the eyes of the Capitol citizens. But as I stand rooted on the podium and observe the youth of my District, all I see is sunken, piteous faces. Even they don't believe in me.

Anika throws his arm around me and I fidget uncomfortably. The scent of perfume is so strong that it overwhelms my nostrils, almost making me gag.

"Now, before we move on, do we have any Volunteers for Miss Bryson?" asks Anika encouragingly.

The resounding silence is almost deafening.

"Splendid! Now, for the boys…"

I don't know how to hold myself, what to do or where to look as Anika plunges his hand into the Reaping Ball and removes one more slip of paper. This dictates who my District partner is – the most acute remnant of home that I will have over the coming the weeks, the one who I will be spending the most time with, the one who will have to die before I can return home for good.

"Dominic Pritchett."

I do not know this boy, but I have never hated the Hunger Games more than in the moment his name is called. I hear his wailing, pleading and begging as he is forcibly hauled up to the stage by Peacekeepers. He stumbles clumsily over the stage, like a baby learning to walk. Dominic is obviously from town. I'm sure on any other day he'd be adorable, with blonde hair, rosy cheeks and dimples but as he sobs uncontrollably, all you can see is the bleakness of his future. He can't be more than twelve years old. I feel ripples of anger course through me, threatening to show in my body language, but I restrain myself. This child would not be able to swat a fly, let alone kill another human being.

Once again, Anika offers Dominic's place to another eligible candidate and asks for a Volunteer. Of course, there is nobody willing to take that risk. I stare at the group of eighteen-year-olds, a handful of them muscular and no doubt able-bodied. They remain unspeaking and unmoved. I catch Tomas' eye, as if to challenge him, and after a fleeting gaze he quickly looks away.

"Well, there you have it! Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I present to you your Tributes for the 17th Annual Hunger Games: Tatiana Bryson and Dominic Pritchett! Let's show them some support, shall we?" Anika squeals.

These words are followed by polite applause from the crowd. As if they have any other choice. All through this, I can still hear little Dominic whimpering and tearfully asking Anika can he go back and see his Mommy and Daddy. His request is met with a hearty chuckle and my longing to wring our Escort's neck has never been greater.

Dominic and I shake hands, Anika makes his closing statement and the Reaping Ceremony is then swiftly wrapped up. I can feel myself being dragged along by Anika and there is hardly any time for me to look back before I'm practically thrown into the Justice Building. I hear the gargantuan front doors shut with a heavy boom and I am ripped from the place I call home.


	4. Swan Song

_A/N: Thank you to Oisin55 for your review and advice and excusemeimalittleawkward for the follow! It means a lot to me!_

**Chapter 4 – Swan Song**

District 12 has never felt more like a prison to me. I've been sent into a small, lonely room in the Justice Building that is completely devoid of warmth and comfort. It has about as much homely appeal as a pig sty. The mahogany oak doors leading into it loom over me, tall and menacing, sealing me in. Any attempt at an escape would be fruitless. I would be met by nothing but Peacekeepers outside and the last thing I need is to earn myself a sour reputation. Who wants to sponsor a brat who tried to do a runner?

I'm starting to wonder if it's even worth my time to form a strategy. Maybe I should just go into the Arena and improvise, play it by ear. Or better yet, hop off the pedestal early, detonate the in-built land mines and off myself before I can let another Tribute – or the Capitol – do it for me? Being a Tribute from Twelve is a signed death warrant in itself. But deep down, I know I don't have the guts to do it. Maybe it's not much of a conscious decision. Isn't it human instinct to strive and fight tooth and nail to survive? I guess that's where the Capitol has got us cornered.

This is the stage of the pre-Games where a Tribute – me – has family and friends come to say goodbye to them. Honestly, I don't know what to say. How do you make your final farewells in such a rushed and frantic way? It doesn't feel right to me. And to be honest, I'm angry at Tomas. He could've Volunteered for the little boy, Dominic, and saved a child who has little to no chance of survival otherwise. Sure, the cute act could work in his favour, but he's only twelve and judging on his breakdown at the Reaping I doubt he would know where to start. Tomas is a man, strong and perfectly capable of defending himself. But then… it would mean the two of us would be pitted against each other and our parents would definitely have to watch at least one of their children die. I feel so selfish. Maybe I shouldn't, but I do.

The doors in front of me open quietly and my whole family floods into the room. Isaac wraps his arms around my waist, weeping, but not saying a word. I'm sure he feels some kind of guilt or mourning already. I want to be blunt with him, tell him my chances, but it's not fair to do it. Not to him. Dad puts his hand on my shoulder and gives it a reassuring squeeze, his brow furrowed. I can tell that he's trying not to get upset, for the sake of those who'll still be at home. It's my mother who has taken it the worst. I pull her into an embrace, little Micah nestled between us.

"I'll try to get home, Mom. I'll really try," I say. Part of me wonders if I'm lying. She nods her head fervently. I think she believes me… for now, at least.

Then I turn to Tomas, who's looking almost cold and removed. We both know what the other is thinking and before I can do anything, Tomas says, "You think I'm a monster. Not Volunteering for the little boy."

The words escape my lips before I can stop them. "You could have saved him, Tomas. He's only a kid..." The disdain in my voice is palpable.

His temper is rising now, his voice raised to a shout. "And you aren't? And let's say I had replaced him, what then Tatiana? We get put into the Arena and kill each other? Is that what you want?"

I don't say anything, and the resounding quiet in the room is broken only by the sobs of my mother and two little brothers. I feel my own tears welling up, and they cling to my eyelashes as I struggle to maintain my composure. Their last semi-normal memories of me won't be a blubbering wreck.

Yet I betray myself. As the Peacekeeper bursts into the room, his very presence intimidating and frightening, I am crying loudly as we all pull together. My body is shaking and I can only get my final goodbyes out in heaving breaths, calling after the people I love as they are led from the room in an orderly fashion. All I can think of is how Micah never got to truly know me, and I was always Isaac's favourite and will he ever be the same after this, and Tomas probably thinks that I resent him, hate him even…

I am taken by complete shock when the door flies open and I am granted one more guest. The woman who races over to me is a mess. Her honey blonde hair is dishevelled and she has a distressed look in her eyes. Everything about her reads chaotic. I take a step back but she latches on to me and her voice is rattled with despair.

"You have to keep him alive, do you hear me?" she tells me. I just stare at her wide-eyed, unable to respond. She grabs me by the arms and her grip is painful. "Please, make sure Dominic comes home! I'm begging you, do what you have to, just don't let him… he can't…" I pull her off me and the woman collapses at my knees. "Please! Please, he's my baby! I can't lose him, not like this!"

It would be wrong to make a promise to save this woman's son. And right now, I value my own life above his. And it makes me a filthy hypocrite because didn't I just ask Tomas why he hadn't spared this boy's life by simply Volunteering? She is a mother who wants to keep her family together. But I have a family too, and she should understand that, even now.

I wrap my arms around myself in a defensive way, speechless, when two Peacekeepers walk in. I guess they heard the commotion and they barge in to put a stop to this. As they drag her from the room, she's shrieking and howling so much that her words are unintelligible. They eventually fade, but in my head, they're still as loud as before.

Anika shows up a few minutes later, looking a bit irked but otherwise in good spirits. "Sorry for the delay! There was just a little drama outside, but your Peacekeepers very kindly dealt with it." I gape at him. Is he hearing his own words? "And now, we're officially ready to go! I hope you're as excited as I am!" he says, almost beside himself. I don't get a chance to respond as I'm taken by the arm and once again dragged about like a rag doll.

We meet a red-eyed and jittery Dominic outside. After an awkward car journey where none of us speaks (despite our Escort's strained attempts at casual conversation), we arrive at the train station. It is here where we will officially begin our journey to the Capitol. I step out of the car, wondering what awaits us on the train.

I am not prepared for the cameras that greet us.


End file.
